


A Dance Most Intriguing

by wombuttress



Series: Poor Communication Kills [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-29 14:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8494018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombuttress/pseuds/wombuttress
Summary: The Empress is having a ball. Josephine's nightmares are coming true. Dorian just wants to see Hathorn dance. Hathorn still has no idea what exactly it is that they say about elves with large ears.(Local man attends Winter Palace, makes complete ass of himself, dances with boyfriend.)





	

The third most trying day of Josephine Montilyet’s life occurred on the twelfth day of Harvestmere—the day that it became unavoidably clear that the Inquisitor would have to attend a formal event.

(The most trying day had been the assault on Haven. The second most trying had been the day Yvette briefly decided that she wanted to be an opera singer.)

Hathorn Lavellan was a competent, capable man in many ways. He was an excellent archer. He was an uncompromising commander. He was really, really good looking. This last allowed him to more or less pass as charming despite having not a single drop of tact or grace in his entire body. He had helped the fledgling Inquisition to escape Haven, nearly at the cost of his own life. He was a strong leader, a good man. Josephine had her full confidence in his ability to lead them all to salvation and success in his new position as Inquisitor. Really. She did.

But the day she learned that Hathorn Lavellan would have to attend Empress Celene’s Halamshiral ball, Josephine briefly—for but the barest second—considered changing careers, abandoning Skyhold, and hopping on the first ship bound across the Amaranthine Ocean.

She spent the entire morning drafting a plan for breaking the news to him.

He passed by her new office around noon that day, glistening with sweat and dirt (only Hathorn could _glisten_ with dirt), his longbow slung over one shoulder.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine greeted.

“Hrmph,” Hathorn replied, which was quite cordial, by his standards.

Her eyes flicked to her preparations. The door to the exit was already barred from the other side, blocking off escape that way. Leliana’s agents positioned themselves the door he had entered through. And the floor was smeared with pitch, too. Just in case.

Josephine cleared her throat, and explained the situation to him. He listened, his face in its usual expression of perfect stony stoicism. Then he said, “No,” and leapt out the window.

Josephine sighed, sealing a few letters as she waited for the Qunari mercenaries he’d stationed outside the window to wrestle the Inquisitor into submission and bring him back to her office.

\--

“No, no, no, no, no,” Hathorn said, storming down the hall and simultaneously trying to get the pitch off his bare feet. It slowed his escape considerably.

“I’m afraid it’s unavoidable,” Josephine said gravely, following at a clipped pace.

“Is not,” Hathorn shot back, “I’m the Inquisitor and I say it’s not.”

“Sadly, it does not work that way.”

“I frankly don’t see why we can’t just let her die.”

“Because then Orlais will descend into chaos.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“…Leading to the future you saw at Redcliffe.”

“Hm, a heavy price, but one I am willing to pay in order to end Orlais once and for all.”

Josephine let her clipboard hang limply from her fingers. She slowed her steady pursuit as she passed by Cullen, sitting grouchily on the bench with his sword between his knees. “Your turn,” she told him wearily.

Cullen rose and sped to catch up, assuming his shift in the rotation. It would be three hours until Cassandra would relieve him.  He resumed his standard tactics. “Please,” he said.

“No.”

“Please.”

“ _No.”_

“Please!”

_\--_

It is a fact lost to history exactly how Inquisitor Hathorn Lavellan was finally convinced to stop being such a child and just go and attend the damn party. Some say it was the promise of his closest friend for ‘some really grand pranks on those hoity nobs’. Some say it was the seductive whisper of his Tevinter lover of an innuendo-laden ‘dance’ at the end of the evening. Some say it was the First Enchanter of the Imperial Court freezing him to the ceiling for a day and a night. Some say it was a single cold look from the Inquisition’s spymaster. Some say it was the Inquisition’s ambassador bursting into tears in the middle of the throne room, causing him to look guilty and start warily shushing her and agreeing to go.

The world may never know. But what with one thing or another, Hathorn Lavellan was going to the ball.

\--

Josephine gazed forlornly at the guest list Hathorn had provided, with crude doodles standing in for actual names, as Hathorn had continued to pigheadedly refuse to learn to write.

“Are you certain?” she said hollowly, for the seventh time that day.

“Yes, quite.”

“This is how you wish to allocate our three extra invitations.”

“Mhm.”

“You wish to bring Cole, a Fade spirit who, while very sweet, doesn’t particularly understand humans customs, or in fact, customs at all.”

Hathorn shrugged. “I like Cole.”

“And Dorian. Are you…certain, that it is wise, to bring your _Tevinter lover,_ to an Orlesian ball?”

“I’m always certain,” Hathorn said confidently.

“And you also wish to bring Sera, who is…” Josephine searched for the appropriate word, and settled on, “Sera.”

“I’m glad my excellent drawings were sufficient to get my point across.”

Josephine carefully clipped the guest list to her clipboard, feeling that a man who couldn’t actually read didn’t have the _right_ to use such unnecessarily long words, and looked at Cassandra. “Talk some sense into him,” she mouthed.

“Don’t look at me,” Cassandra said quickly, crossing her arms. “ _I_ certainly don’t want to go.”

“On second thought,” Hathorn said, examining his nails, “Cole might get overwhelmed with all the people. Cassandra, you can go in his place.”

\--

It is unknown whether First Enchanter Vivienne ever froze the Inquisitor to the ceiling for a day and a night, but she _did_ ice over the entire great hall, sending him skidding across it and into a wall, allowing her to capture him and escort him for the fitting.

“Darling, you simply can’t turn up at the Winter Palace and not be the best-looking person there,” she said, telekinetically dragging him to her quarters, where her horde of tailors, seamstresses and assorted villains waited, rubbing their wicked hands together in anticipation.

“To be fair,” Dorian said, strolling along and chuckling, “I think it’s quite impossible for him to do that, even if he were dressed in a burlap sack. He’s quite exquisite.”

 _Traitor,_ Hathorn said with his glare.

Vivienne shot Dorian a look. “Darling, I do believe you are somewhat blinded in this case.”

“How can you go along with this,” Hathorn moaned, helpless. “I trusted you!”

“That’s what you get,” Dorian said seriously, “for carrying on with an evil Tevinter magister.”

“That’s what I get,” Hathorn mumbled.

For an interminable length of time, Hathorn was subject to endless fabrics, pins, pokes and prods. He was spun about and ordered to raise and lift his arms a torturous number of times, while Dorian (the traitor! the wicked betrayer! that viper, that backstabber, that double-crosser!) sat in a folding chair and judged, sipping from a flute of fine Antivan champagne.

“I suppose you think this is all very funny,” Hathorn said from behind a screen, where he was being sewn into the final version of his formal suit by a team of (vile! monstrous! evil!) tailors.

“Incredibly,” Dorian said, “But not as funny as I shall find an entire evening of you against the entire court of Orlais. They’re never going to stand a chance.”

“I know a few other people that aren’t going to stand a chance,” the Inquisitor grumbled, and then yelped in a deep and manly voice as someone ‘accidentally’ stuck him with a needle.

Vivienne tapped her lower lip thoughtfully, tapping her heeled boot on the floor. “I suppose this will do. For just the one evening. Bring him out.” She turned, her coattails flaring, and settled into the other chair.

Hathorn was shoved out from behind the screen, despite his constant stream of elvhen cursing. He stiffly crossed his arms and lifted his chin. “Well?” he challenged, addressing Dorian. “What do you think?”

It was a suit of finest willow weave and dragon webbing, materials so strong they could almost double as armor—but so fine that nobody would be able to tell. The cut was of a fashion so recent, it hadn’t actually come to pass yet, and would be the newest style by the time the ball actually rolled around. The fabric itself was dyed to a shade of green that—were it but a shade yellower or bluer, would have been but an ordinary green of no consequence—but as it was, brought out Hathorn’s eyes so exquisitely that it was impossible to look away. It was shot through with gold thread and adorned with golden buttons and epaulets, so that he glittered with every breath. At one shoulder was fastened a rich half-cape of Imperial silk so fine it flowed like water, the symbol of the Inquisition emblazoned upon it. His boots were a fine brown leather, and so tightly fitted to his toned calves that he would surely need at least three servants to take them off again.

Most daringly, his quite prominent ears sparkled with delicate chain jewelry, daring anyone to comment on them.

Dorian dropped his glass.

“You hate it,” Hathorn accused.

Dorian fainted.

“I knew I was good,” Vivienne said in satisfaction. “Now, who shall do his hair?”

\--

“Dancing,” Leliana said, “is much like a conversation.”

 _Oh, no,_ Hathorn thought.

“And much like a conversation,” Leliana continued, “you can lie and fake your way through one if you’re good enough.”

 _Oh, thank June_ , Hathorn thought.

“I can already dance,” he protested. “This isn’t necessary.”

“Really?” Dorian said, observing. “I’ve never seen you dance.” In fact, the thought of stiff, collected Hathorn dancing was nearly unimaginable. Despite his natural grace, the thought of Hathorn doing anything as frivolous as dancing was ridiculous.

“I quite like to dance,” Hathorn said, examining his recently buffed-to-a-shine fingernails. “You see, once the shemlen forced us Dalish to eke out a living in the woods, we didn’t have much entertainment to ourselves besides dancing, frolicking in the woods, and desperately trying to survive. So, you see, I do enjoy a nice frolic, which is very much akin to dancing.”

Leliana and Josephine glanced uncomfortably at each other.

“What sort of dancing?” Josephine ventured.

“All sorts,” Hathorn said. “Dalish River Dancing. Dalish Circle Dancing.  The _shavahrn._ Although that one requires seven virgins and a wicker chair, and someone willing to be set on fire.”

There was a brief moment in which the humans tried to figure out whether or not this was a joke. It was exceedingly difficult to tell if Hathorn was joking. Neither his face nor tone of voice changed in the slightest. Eventually they decided to shelve the matter for later discussion and move on.

“Well, Orlesian partner-dancing is different,” Leliana said. “But at least you can learn quick if you already know something.”

 “Very well.” Hathorn snorted. “I suppose I have no choice but to consent to this nonsense, if only because I know you won’t relent until I do.”

Dorian grinned, rubbing his hands together. “Ho-ho. Now this I cannot wait to see. You, dancing. That’ll be something to keep my thoughts occupied for a while.”

Hathorn flushed. “But not while he’s here.”

“I can arrange that,” Leliana said, snapping her fingers.

“What?” Dorian said, shocked, as Leliana’s goons emerged from the shadows they inhabited. “But—wait! Don’t you need a partner?”

“That’s what you get,” Hathorn said, crossing his arms smugly as Dorian was dragged whining away. “No entertainment for traitors.”

“Then it seems I shall be your partner,” Leliana said, stepping forward. Seeing the cold gleam in her eye, Hathorn became suddenly deeply full of regrets.

\--

Josephine sat beside the Inquisitor in the carriage, a deeper sense of doom stealing over her than any she had felt before in her life. Hathorn looked the part. He _was_ the part. But the second he started talking…

They’d considered training him in conversation and quickly given it up as a lot cause.

“Now just follow the notecards I wrote out for you,” she said. “And don’t say anything else.”

“I can’t read,” Hathorn said. “But sure.”

Josephine almost said something _most_ unladylike. “Of course. Yes. But you were listening when we went over them, yes? At least you looked like you were listening…”

“Yes, Josephine,” Hathorn said, wearing his Listening Face, which seemed to placate her.

They arrived at the ball, exiting the elaborate carriage to enumerable fanfare. Hathorn strutted along, evidently as comfortable as could be. He was tall for an elf, taller even than many humans, and resplendent in his court dress as he was, gathered the stares of all the gathered onlookers. He paid them no mind whatsoever. That only seemed to spur them on. This was going…almost alright, Josephine thought.

Inside the palace, it was no worse. Hathorn really could strut, and a set of stairs to saunter down only made it better. The court announcer went through their names, making Cassandra look angrier and angrier and Hathorn look more and more smug, until he was being addressed by the Empress of Orlais herself.

Hathorn inclined his head at a tilt, clasping his hands behind his back. He cleared his throat.

This was going to be alright, Josephine thought, calming her racing heartbeat. This was going to work out.

“Someone’s going to assassinate you tonight,” he said to the empress. “Just so you know. Might want to get on that. So! Where’s the food?”

\--

Hathorn  remembered vaguely that he was supposed to be listening for gossip, but that sounded like the singularly least pleasant thing that he could imagine doing at an event anywhere in Orlais. Instead, he had successfully made his way to the food, and was sniffing curiously at it. There was an entire table of cheeses. Fascinating. He’d never had anything other than halla cheese and a few unexciting wedges of Ferelden yellow before. This was going to be an interesting experience.

“Is it true,” an Orlesian noblewoman tittered somewhere beside him, “what they say about elven ears?”

Hathorn looked round, swallowing his mouthful of cheese. She, in pink, had two friends beside her, in in  yellow and green. The two shyer women hung back, listening. “That they’re pointed?” he ventured. Granted, his were rather rounded at the tips, but still quite long and ostentatious.

The lady giggled behind her mask. “I mean, what they say about particularly _large_ elven ears.”

Hathorn blinked at her, eminently slowly. He sipped from his wine glass. “That…elves with large ears…hear better?” He frowned. He didn’t even think that was true. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about the Empress?”

All three noblewomen burst into wild shrieks of laughter and ran away. He watched them recede into the crowd.

How mysterious. Oh, well. Hathorn sipped—alright, gulped—his wine and put the encounter from his mind.

\--

Hathorn was on his third glass of wine, having moved on from the table of cheeses to the table of assorted canapes and feeling pleasantly warm, when the dowager approached. She had more grey hair than black, and her dress was of a rather severe fashion. She was a header taller and several times wider than him, and loomed.

He had had just enough wine to manage this, he supposed. He was certainly not…intimidated, in any way. Certainly not. She was just a very large human woman who loomed. That was fine.

She talked at him for a while, which he followed with vague nods, mouth full of canape. Suddenly, more and more women and a few of their husbands seemed to have appeared out of nowhere to input their opinions on the weather and the latest fashions.

“Is it true,” one of the woman said, “that the Dalish tattoo themselves _everywhere?”_

“Yes, I was wondering, too,” another said, too quickly for this to not have been planned.

“Yes, you absolutely must tell us.”

Hathorn’s jumpy gaze shifted between them all. The buffet was behind him, Orlesians at every flank. There would be no escape here. Not in pants _this_ tight.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said eventually. “Everywhere.”

One of the younger ones gasped delicately, her gloved fingers going to her painted mouth. “Everywhere?! Even on the—!?”

“ _Especially_ there,” Hathorn said, seriously.

“Oh my!”

“And what about the mark? Is it true that it has…changed you?” The dowager leaned forward. “Exacerbated your savage nature?”

“Oh yes,” Hathorn said. “Incredibly so. Even as we speak, I am but barely restraining my wild animalistic urges.”

Another Orlesian whispered to her friend, “Isn’t it true that all the Dalish are like that?”

Hathorn heard it. With his usefully large ears, apparently. “Absolutely correct,” he said, stone-faced. “In camp, we all wear hardly any clothing. Only just enough to tear off in fits of passion, of which there are many.” He drained his glass and casually plucked another from the platter of a passing elven servant, feeling a pang as he did so. “Why, it is shocking that we manage to get anything done in the way of hunting and gathering at all, what with all the cavorting and frolicking we engage in on the daily. So, is nobody concerned about the Empress getting assassinated tonight? No? Nobody?”

“I knew it!” someone whispered, ignoring him.

“Bella! Write this all down! Now tell us—is it true, what they say about the alternative usages of elfroot?”

\--

“Sera,” Hathorn said desperately, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’ve made polite chit chat with three different people so far and it’s killing me.”

Sera glanced at the leather satchel at his side. “What’s in there?”

“This? Oh. Halla statues,” he answered.

“Halla statues,” Sera repeated.

“That’s right.”

“Why’ve you got a sack full of halla statues?”

Hathorn frowned. He couldn’t remember. He’d had a lot of wine, though not nearly enough. “I don’t know. I like them. I like halla.”

“Alright, Lordybloomers, sure.”

He glanced from side to side. “Can you tell me what it is they say about elves with large ears?” he asked lowly.

Sera gigglesnorted. “Obviously, that they’ve got big feet. And spend a lot of money on custom-tailored hats.”

Hathorn was under the vague impression that this was not the whole answer, but he let it go.

“Please,” he begged. “I need your peculiar touch. Make this bearable somehow.”

“Oh, I can make it bearable, alright.” Sera’s pasty face split into a grin. “You know Orlesians keep bears in cages for entertainment at parties, right? Well, here’s what I was thinking…”

Hathorn listened for a full ten minutes.

“…and then you swing in on the chandelier, wearing the Empress’s gown, singing the banned verses of _The Lusty Argonian Maid,_ and meanwhile, I’ve got the mice. You’re following so far, yea?”

He nodded eagerly, and was about to make some suggestions for improvement when the looming silhouettes of Josephine and Leliana appeared in the doorway. Hathorn managed not to cower, but only just.

“Separate them,” Leliana ordered. “For the rest of the evening.”

Several of Josephine’s polite agents herded a protesting Sera into another room as Leliana dragged Hathorn out by the ear.

“No more being disruptive!” she said seriously. “Now, go climb that lattice in the garden like a good boy and see what you find rummaging around in there. Bound to be _something_ important.”

\--

Hathorn slowly collected his arrows, stowing them back in the quiver at his waist. He’d missed a lot of targets in this altercation. Five glasses of Antivan Red did that, he supposed.

He let the others—particularly Cassandra—hang back as he spoke to the new arrival.

Ambassador Briala gave the smallest suggestion of a curtsey. “Inquisitor. I’ve heard of you.”

Hathorn gave the smallest suggestion of a bow. “Ambassador. I’ve heard of _you_.”

They talked at length, the first civilized discussion Hathorn had had all day. It was an incredible breath of fresh air. Within minutes they were conspiring to seize Orlais for the elves, and he hadn’t felt this good all week.

“Then we are in accord.” Hathorn gave his first genuine smile of the day.

“We are.” They clasped hands.

Briala hesitated. “ _Dareth shiral_ ,” she said, with an accent. “Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. _Dareth shiral_.” Hathorn began to turn away, then paused. “You wouldn’t happen to know what exactly they say about elves with large ears?”

Briala tilted her head. “Inquisitor…are you implying something?”

“No,” Hathorn, who had never implied anything in his life, said quickly.

Blast. He might never find out what it was.

\--

There was still some time before the bell that would signify the dancing to begin. Sera was still being carefully kept as far from him as possible in any non-combat situation. Cassandra had nothing but death glares for him. Dorian was off schmoozing, or something. Hathorn didn’t know how he stood it.

And he was sobering up. That was the truly awful part.

He remembered Josephine telling him something about throwing things into the fountain as some kind of quaint shemlen superstition.  That certainly sounded better than speaking to a single additional Orlesian, so Hathorn emptied his pockets and retrieved a few silver coins, a couple rings, half of a canape, some mysterious little blue tablet and a lizard. He wasn’t sure which of these things he was supposed to be throwing into the fountain, so he went with all of them at once.

Satisfied, he watched the coins, rings, tablets and half-canape float to the bottom, and the lizard bravely swim away. He felt good about this. This felt like a correct decision.

He sat by the fountain for a while, satisfied, and was just about to go off and find more things to throw into it when a gaggle of yet further Orlesians accosted him—this time to discuss politics.

Hathorn  wondered if it would be socially acceptable to leap into the fountain. No one had batted an eyelash at him clambering up the lattice. Maybe if he just sort of back-flipped away…

\--

The dance was going well, at first. Hathorn had told the truth about his dancing ability. He was as lithe and graceful as a celebrated Dalish hunter could only be. He gracefully spun and dipped the duchess without err, without a single misstep. He moved in flawless elegant lines, every part of him schooled into perfection. The whole court could not take its eyes off him, and his extremely tight pants. Yes, the dancing was going extremely well.

The complicated small-talk was going less well.

He had no damned idea what this ridiculous pale woman was telling him and he was beginning to suspect that he could only get away with rephrasing her questions as answers for so long.

Another step, another turn, another cryptic comment.

“Who in the court do you trust?” Florianne said in her lilting voice, turning again.

“Uh,” said Hathorn. The Inquisition? Nobody? Himself?

He glanced at Josephine above by the balustrade, barely restraining herself. She was mouthing the correct answer at him.

He opened his mouth, and then changed his mind. He stopped mid-step, and pushed the duchess off him. The crowd gave a delicate gasp, rippling through the room. Hathorn could actually feel Josephine’s heart stop.

“You know what,” he said, “I don’t trust any of you. You’re all horrible people, every single one of you. Especially the Empress, who is a vile murderer, and her cousin, a yet viler murderer, and also you, and you, and _you,”_ he pointed to several specific people he’d been forced to converse with that night, who drew back in such offense that Hathorn thought they might actually implode from it, “Who are boorish and bigoted and boring. And I don’t remember any of your names, you sniveling  disgusting snakes, you worms, you maggoty halla droppings, because I don’t care to consider this court or any of you morally decayed worthless sops in it for a moment longer than I absolutely have to. I want it on record that I don’t want to be here and would gladly acquiesce to being thrown out.” He crossed his arms, and sniffed.

Distantly, he heard the sound of a “Yeah! Woohoo!”, the sound of breaking glass, and the buzzing of several hundred angry bees in the other room, followed by screaming.

In the Grand Ballroom, there was nearly complete silence and stillness. Nobody was even tittering or remarking or gasping. Josephine had quietly fainted into Leliana’s arms, and Cullen had his eyes covered, grinning. Leliana turned her death glare briefly onto him, and then unto Hathorn.

Oh, well, he thought, smiling innocently at her. If this was how he died, then that was how he died. It would have been worth it.

It was at that moment that Florianne, who had casually made her way up to the balustrade during Hathorn’s speech, took advantage of the court’s complete distraction to stab the Empress.

That broke the spell. The court erupted in chaos as Florianne laughed and started some manner of villainous rant.

“Oh, see,” Hathorn said irritably, heard by no one over the din. “Now she’s gone and gotten murdered, oh dear, who could have seen this coming? If only someone had foreseen this and warned someone. What a tragedy, made all the worse by its unexpectedness. Who could possibly have foretold this?” He continued to mutter to himself as he chased Florianne up onto the balcony, his companions and a couple bees materializing beside him. “Goodness gracious, if only someone had warned us! Why, this might even have been prevented altogether! What a shame it was not. What an absolute shame.”

“I want you to know that I still hate you,” Cassandra said admiringly, “But slightly less as of now.”

\--

“I don’t understand it,” Josephine said, fanning herself weakly as Leliana rubbed her back. “All evening at this cursed ball, he’s been…been…”

“Making an ass out of himself,” Cassandra suggested.

The ball was well and truly over now. Most of the guests had fled, or departed with all possibly available dignity (not much), or otherwise made themselves scarce. Blood and ribbons decorated the floor, but the band still played, the music echoing thinly through the vast and empty halls.

“Y-yes…and he’s somehow still managed to…” Josephine shook her head, wordless.

“Neatly disposed of a sovereign responsible for the murder of thousands elves,” Leliana supplied, “Made himself look the hero by publically disposed of the assassin, blackmailed her rival and installed him as a puppet ruler under our thumb, and functionally made an elven woman Empress of Orlais, all the while appearing as so boorish as to be utterly guileless, the sort of person nobody would perceive as truly dangerous in the confines of the Game.”

The advisors glanced amongst each other.

“Do you suppose he’s been planning for this all along?” Cullen said slowly.

“An eminently ambitious man,” Cassandra said slowly.

“An eminently ambitious _elven_ man,” Leliana added.

 Cassandra nodded, distant. “Heading a powerful organization. Keeping his closest thoughts entirely to himself.”

Cullen scrunched his forehead. “Could he have arranged this? On purpose? All of this?”

There was a silence amongst them, which was broken moments later with a crash of breaking glass, a cackle, and a hoot. The advisors as one looked through the doorway. A chandelier was missing from the ceiling. Hathorn was distantly visible, sniggering, drawing his bow again and aiming at the next chandelier in a long row. “Bet you you can’t hit two at once,” he said to Sera, who stuck her tongue out at him.

They looked back at each other.

“Nope,” said Cullen.

“No way,” agreed Cassandra.

“Not possible,” Josephine said.

They watched Hathorn and Sera slowly decimate about half the chandeliers in the grand ballroom before growing bored and wandering off to throw jars of paint at the walls.

“I remember you telling me, Cassandra,” Josephine said, “about the time he drank three bottles of Ritewine that he just…found, on the ground, in the wild.”

“And then,” Cassandra said dryly, “mounted a sleeping high dragon, woke it, and attempted to put an arrow through the eye of a giant while airborne.”

The advisors nodded to themselves. No way.

Leliana quietly withheld comment, humming. She decided that she wouldn’t be murdering him tonight, after all, but only because it had worked.

\--

Hathorn concluded his talk with Briala. It had been extensive, if concise. Hathorn was good at being concise.

“It was a pleasure,” she said, inclining her head. “I foresee a long and positive future between our organizations.”

“As do I,” Hathorn replied. “ _Ma serannas_ , Ambassador. I’ll be in touch.” He paused. “Never again shall we submit.

“Never again shall we submit,” she repeated. “ _Dareth shiral,_ Inquisitor.”

Hathorn walked away first, champagne flute in hand. It was probably the last one in the building yet unbroken. He hesitated, tapping his boot on the tiles. “You deserved better than her, you know,” he said, facing away from her.

He saw her tense out of the corner of his eye. Briala took a measured breath. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

That finished, Hathorn took a brief walk around the largely empty palace. It looked a lot better without any Orlesians in it, he had to say. He paused to toss a few more pieces of jewelry and another lizard into the fountain, and ambled onto a balcony, regarding the constellations.

“There you are,” he said, as Dorian approached. “Where have you been all night?”

“Being kept away from you on pain of death,” he grumbled, slipping an arm around him and pressing close. “Leliana was…quite insistent.”

“That’s a shame,” Hathorn said. “I was so looking forward to that dance of the ten silk scarves. It sounded…intriguing.”

“It can still be arranged. If you can find me ten silk scarves.”

Hathorn gave an involuntary shudder. “Creators, if I never have to hunt for anything in this miserable building again for the rest of my life, it will be too soon.”

Dorian chuckled. “Fair enough. It wouldn’t be as much fun without some Orlesians to shock and dismay, now would it?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Hathorn said. “Perhaps…back at Skyhold, where I can order an underling to fetch things for me instead.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Say, Dorian,” Hathorn said suddenly. “You wouldn’t happen to know exactly what it is they say about elves with large ears?”

Dorian snorted, nearly choking on his own spit. He looked Hathorn up and down, eyes resting at the tips of his (adorable, if rather clownish) ears.

“I can only tell you that what they say is completely true,” he said.

“Oh, well,” Hathorn  muttered cantankerously, “Good to know, then.” He sipped from the flute. “Champagne?”

“Maker, please.” A pause. “You seem tired. Are you alright?”

“Not at all,” Hathorn said cheerfully. “I’d say tonight went swimmingly.”

“Really?” Dorian shrugged. “Well, if you say so.”

They watched the stars a while, huddling close against the night air. A few measures of distant cello music floated in through the open door.

“We never did get to dance,” Hathorn said.

“Why so disappointed?” Dorian sniffed. “Why, I recall you had me dragged out, the last time I attempted it.”

“That was different. That was then. We can dance now.”

Dorian lifted his chin, being contrary “Isn’t that just typical? Asks a man to dance after everything’s been trampled and ruined, with no one around to look at me. _Now_ he wants to dance.”

“With you?” Hathorn turned to him, with that measured, deliberate stare of his. “I should like nothing better in all the world.”

Dorian broke. It never took long with Hathorn. He chuckled and stepped back, bowing and offering a hand. “Then let us dance.”

The bastard really was quite graceful.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://wombuttress.tumblr.com/)   
>  [my oc blog. more hathorn here.](http://pile-of-dragon-filth.tumblr.com/tagged/hathorn%20lavellan)


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